


Midnight In the Garden of...

by Nighthaunting



Category: Warhammer - All Media Types, Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angron gets the nails removed, M/M, and sort of worse, things are sort of better between him and russ, weird russ headcanons ahoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:07:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9875363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nighthaunting/pseuds/Nighthaunting
Summary: AU where Russ technically 'wins' the Night of the Wolf because he convinces Angron to get the Nails removed, and Angron technically 'wins' the Night of the Wolf because he beats Russ until Russ' pretense of humanity breaks and Angron sees what's underneath.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [purplekitte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplekitte/gifts).



> Includes allusions to my headcanons of Russ’ early days as a human and also Russ being a wolf, literally.

Angron is not used to his thoughts being quiet. He smooths a hand over his stubbled skull and almost misses the metallic tangle of the Nails. Almost. He likes being able to think clearly, finally being able to hold on to an idea long enough to express it. There is pain still, though; his Legion is as wounded as he was. They have been on Terra for many years, as the Emperor works to undo the damage that has been done, and will likely be on Terra for many more.

If there is one thing Angron is tired of, it is Terra. The Emperor, despite the differences in opinion Angron still has with Him–and Angron will never get over how novel it is to be able to _argue_ over these opinions, even and especially with Him–has decided that Angron’s healing must be celebrated.

His healing is not the only thing being celebrated, however, and over the years Angron has come to realize that just as much as he has returned to his own thoughts. This is the first event that both participants of what has become an Imperial cause célèbre will both be attending.

Russ has strenuously avoided him since The Night of the Wolf, as it has come to be called. Angron can understand why: in the abstract sense, liars hate people who see through their lies; in the material sense, when a beast is beaten it avoids that which beat it. Russ is both a liar and a beast, even if he hides one behind the other behind the other.

Despite various comings and goings from Terra, avoidance has worked, until now, when the Emperor expects both of them to be present. Angron hasn’t bothered to refer to it as anything other than a ‘party’, which it is, on the Imperium’s typically ridiculous scale. Like all parties that Angron has ever been to–very very few, if one were actually counting–it has the same basic features: useless guests, music he can barely stand, people he has to make an effort to stand–his fellow Primarchs, mainly–the host gently glowing off to one side–although the glow was more specific to Him than it was to the average party host–some sort of food, a bar, and dancing.

Thus far into the evening, Angron has idled in the quietest corner he can find, glowering at anyone who gets too close and tacitly accepting the well-wishes of the few who manage. The Emperor had made a speech that he hadn’t listened to, and the Imperial court was more concerned with itself than Angron.

He doesn’t like the high-rider clothes he’s been given, the discomfort stemming more from what they represent than any lack of selection offered by the racks and racks of clothes that he’d been offered to choose from. Each piece fitted and tailored to his size without his ever knowing about it, which had started another argument between himself and the Emperor. Drawing the poison from his legion and pulling out the Nails was something Angron could agree with Him on, but there was too much that had been wrong and was still wrong for Angron to simply settle under the Emperor’s high-handed rule. 

Across the room, Angron can see Russ drinking steadily and hiding behind his attendant Wolves. The irony–now that he knows the truth–of their mirrored situations isn’t lost on him. There is the urge, suddenly, to not let Russ hide. To drag him out and shake him until the lie unspools around him until he hangs with it.  Angron remembers what he saw that day, in the dust and blood of two battling legions, when he pushed Russ until he could only choose between giving up the illusion or dying to keep it. He can respect that Russ chose life, but he can’t respect what Russ is. Desh'ea made a dead man of Angron, but he’s had to pick up and keep living. That something like Russ is the cause is another, greater, irony, and one Angron thinks he could choke on if he let himself. Being condemned for inhumanity is one thing, Angron knows that he failed his legion and their brotherhood, the same as he failed his brothers and sisters when the Emperor dragged him away from his rightful death. Sending Russ–not even human himself, just playing at it–to condemn him was salt in those old wounds again, when Angron finally pieced together what he’d seen in Russ with a clear head. The memory sets his teeth grating, and fires him enough to march across the ballroom. The crowd parts before him, and Russ’ Wolves are obvious in their indecision before Russ stands and gently nudges them aside. This close, Angron can see the grin Russ turns on him is nothing but teeth and threat, but he loops an arm around Russ’ waist–ignoring the way he can feel Russ tense against him–grabs his leading hand, and drags him into the dance. The weight of the thousand, thousand eyes upon them–most notably those of the Emperor–is enough that Angron watches the truth of Russ’ nature flash across his face, but his teeth stay set in a grin; lips curling back further to show every jagged fang as Angron spins them and stomps rhythmically, forcing Russ to avoid his feet as other couples scatter around them. Before the swelling din of voices can resolve into anything such as questions or the will to stop them, Angron has steered Russ out the great open doors lining the ballroom an onto the terrace.

“Is there a reason for this,” Russ’ voice comes softly, his mouth twisting closed around his teeth as soon as they are out of sight. Angron thinks this might be what a wolf looks like when it’s attempting to be polite, and snorts to himself that Russ is making the effort  _now_ of all times.

“How dare you,” Angron preempts any word games Russ might try and play with him,“how dare you come to me in judgement, with that pretty speech you made, while being what you are.”

They’re hardly alone, and Angron knows himself well enough that whatever answer Russ gives him, it’s going to stick at his temper. He pulls Russ down the wide steps and away from the crowds. In the greater garden it is quieter, and Angron turns on Russ again.

“You were dying,” Russ says, “the stench of it clung to you …” he trails off, and Angron breathes out slowly to battle the unsettled prickle that works its way down his neck–the knowledge that Russ could be so aware is discomfiting–Russ continues, “I did what I did to stop it.”

“Do you expect me to believe that?” Angron snorts, “Brotherly concern?”

The last is said bitterly, Angron has made it clear that his only true brothers and sisters died at Desh'ea. The unnatural fostering the Emperor is trying to encourage between the Primarchs strikes him as wrong; brotherhood sight unseen, only encouraged so they will serve more harmoniously.

“Concern,” Russ says carefully, strange emotion coloring his voice, “there was a time when I was like you, after my pack was slain,” he pauses, searching for the right words, “bitter, I made poor choices.”

“Don’t compare me to–to whatever you are,” Angron seethes. The notion is ridiculous, and Angron would laugh if it weren’t for the look that crosses Russ’ face, just for a moment. 

“How is it any different?” Russ asks, “Your kin were taken from you, as were mine. Both of us were taken in by those at fault–”

“It’s not the same!” Angron shouts, interrupting.

“I remember you making quite a speech as well that night,” Russ continues patiently, “the only difference is that you were killing yourself trying to go back to what you had, and I realized that surviving means moving on.”

The worst thing is that Russ isn’t even angry. Angron could have stood it if Russ were angry, or even smug, but there is none of the posturing that Angron saw that night in Russ now. Just patience; resignation that they are arguing. If he were his old self, Angron would hit him. He doesn’t want to hear this. But he is not a slave anymore, not to any master; even his own temper. 

There must be something in his face that shows his struggle over this, because Russ pulls Angron into his arms. It’s a tight embrace; Russ’ nose is pressed under his ear, and his arms are like iron around Angron’s shoulders. Russ is warm–Angron is surprised by how warm he is–and smells like pine forests. Russ says into Angron’s shoulder, “I know what I am and what I have done–better than you will ever be able to judge me for–but I do care, for all of you who share my blood, in my own way.”

There’s something heavy in Russ’ voice and Angron almost wants to believe him. To think that if Russ can be what he is and still care then Angron has a chance to move beyond temper and violence and the cruelty of the Imperium and do something better. Angron wants Russ as well, suddenly; as warm and near as he is.

“Prove it,” Angron’s voice comes gutturally, and Russ presses his nose into the hollow of his throat and kisses at his jaw and sighs against his mouth. His hands slide to Angron’s shoulders and then down his chest, before Angron catches them in his own hands and holds them.

Angron uses his grip on Russ to steer him again, this time back to a garden bench. He presses Russ against it and kisses him, narrowly avoiding falling when Russ pulls him down onto the bench beside him. It occurs to Angron that Russ’ mouth tastes like honey and copper–blood and whatever he’d been drinking–he stops.

Russ tries to follow him as he pulls away, but Angron shoves him back, holding his shoulders and looking at him. They’re both disheveled, Angron knows, but there is something about Russ that makes it seem wrong. His pupils are blown wide by passion and the dark of evening, but Angron has seen the way the distant lights of the party catch and reflect in his eyes before. In wolves’ eyes on Nucretia, as they stalked through the dusk, edging their way around Angron’s camps in the mountains.

Suddenly Russ pulls out of his grip and slides away from him down the bench, “Don’t bother explaining, I know well enough,” he looks away agitatedly; back at the party, and around the corner of the garden they’re in.

“There’s too much I don’t know, and even less I trust about you,” Angron says roughly, honestly. 

Russ looks at him again, the darkness casting his features strangely. His eyes are twin points of light, and the hesitation comes back to Angron. The want of Russ he’d had, even if it was only a few moments, seems both terrible and breathless.

“I am a wolf, that has never been a lie,” Russ’ voice sounds cautious to Angron’s ears, “you just didn’t understand the truth as I told it to you.”

“I know,” Angron replies, the same notes of caution in his own voice, “I know now.”

Russ stands, staring down at him for a long moment, before turning and disappearing into the gloom beyond the festive lanterns. Angron breathes out, slowly, and sets his elbows on his knees, leaning on them. 

It wasn’t a fight. There are always second chances, Angron has learned, if you can get the realization through your skull.  The scent of pine is carried back to him on the breeze, from someplace further out of the lights and less likely to be disturbed. He can’t help laughing, just a bit. There are always second chances.

Angron gets up and goes looking for Russ.

**Author's Note:**

> originally i meant to end this with them banging in the garden but it didnt work out so have the allusion to them banging in the garden. angst and dialogue and angron trying to move beyond hitting all his problems won out. 
> 
> ugh i love russ and angron they're so similar but so not at the same time.


End file.
